


Time To Come Out Of The Castle

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, pre-Sherlock/John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a recluse with a psychosomatic limp. John delivers pizza to pay the rent. Together they solve crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time To Come Out Of The Castle

The door is like most other doors in this part of London: plain, dark wood, a weathered golden brass sign displaying house and flat number - 221B. The man opening the door, however, is anything but average.

On first glance he seems perfectly normal to John. Dark, curly hair on top of a pale, tired looking face. Blue eyes with dark shadows underneath them - he’s either ill or hasn’t been sleeping much for a while. Maybe both. The man is wearing a blue silk bathrobe over a washed-out t-shirt and pyjama pants. Not the strangest attire John’s seen since he started this job. If anyone had asked John about what made this one special, he’d have said it was the eyes. Those pale blue eyes that seemed to see right through him, seemed to read his innermost secrets. Mesmerising.

“I like my pizza hot.”

John blinks, catches himself staring and clears his throat. He holds out the order. “That’ll be £14.59, please.”

The man grabs the bag - large triple cheese and three cans of coke. Not the most healthy of meals, but John hasn’t been a doctor for over six months now, why should he care? Money exchanges hands and the door slams shut.

John shrugs to himself, trudges back to his car and heads off to the next address.

\------

The door quickly becomes familiar. John glances at the crack in the paint in the top left corner that he noticed on his third delivery. He tilts his head to look at the strange three-pointed indentation right next to the door knocker that is only visible if the light falls just so. Three brush hairs are permanently caught in paint right at eye level.

John knocks and starts counting, wondering if Mr Holmes will make it down before twelve. If it takes longer than fifteen he’ll be in a bad mood and scowl at John. If he hasn’t appeared by twenty one it means he’ll send John down to the ATM to get the money for the order himself and John really hates it when he does that.

Anything before twelve, though, is good. Before twelve means Mr Holmes might be in a good enough mood to exchange a few words with him. They rarely make much sense in the small-talk category, but John has the sneaking suspicion that - if he deigned to - Mr Holmes could be quite the conversationalist.

Ten, eleven - John hears the key turn in the lock and smiles. A good day then.

The door opens to reveal the usual blue bathrobe and ratty pyjamas.

“If you were a serial killer, how would you choose your victims?” Mr Holmes says in lieu of a greeting. It’s not the first time he’s come out with a random inquiry like this, so John takes it in stride. While he’s handing over the delivery and taking the money he thinks it over.

“I’d pick someone who would be least likely to lead the police back to me,” he ventures, but the impatient hand wave tells him that he’s not being original enough. John shrugs.

“What are his preferences? Does he have a type?”

“No. Completely random. If he had a type, he’d have been caught by now.”

“Convenience?”

That earns him narrowed eyes. “How so?”

John thinks about the other three customers on his delivery list, but decides he’s got enough time to play along for a bit. This is interesting.

“No type means he picks his victims at random. Means he has to pick them when it is convenient. From places where they won’t be missed immediately.” He’s just thinking out loud now.

“Crowds,” Mr Holmes says, thoughtfully.

“Not necessarily. Could be...,” John pauses, smiles a bit at the irony of what he’s going to say next. “He could pose as a delivery person.”

Mr Holmes favours him with one of his too intense looks. “No. He’d kill them in their homes. But they were found in random places. Places they had no reason to be. He must have picked them up somewhere. Abducted them.”

“Could be he gets them to trust him enough to go with him voluntarily.”

“Ah. Good idea. So, who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unseen wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of the crowd?”

It sounds rather melodramatic to John, but the question slips out anyway, “Who?”

But Mr Holmes seems to have forgotten he’s there. He’s staring into space and John can almost see the wheels turning in his head. He gives the other man a gentle shove backwards and Mr Holmes turns and steps back inside without so much as a good bye. John closes the door behind him and continues on his round.

\-------  
\------

“Got another email,” Lestrade calls out to Sally when he sees her return from the latest coffee run. She detours into his office.

“From the freak?”

Lestrade nods. “Says our serial killer is a cab driver. Likely someone who’s terminally ill, but appears healthy. And has nothing to lose.”

“You don’t believe that,” Sally scoffs.

“I don’t know. He’s been right on the last three cases...”

“Maybe,” Sally interrupts, “But this is a bit out of left field. Besides, he’s not always right.”

“I know,” Lestrade rubs a hand over his face. “But it’s the best we’ve got. I wish we’d find the bastard already.”

Sally shrugs. “I can check out the cab driver idea, see if anything turns up . Can’t hurt to have a look.”

“Thanks.”

\-------  
\-------

It’s been a week since the strange serial killer conversation and John has read the papers, so he knows that Scotland Yard just apprehended a cab driver for killing four people by poisoning them and making it look like suicide.

When he picks up his delivery list on Saturday evening, he notices the familiar address and his heart beats just a little faster. He tells himself he is being silly, but it’s not really working very well. He makes sure the delivery for Sherlock Holmes is the last one on his route.

He knocks in his usual fashion and begins counting just out of habit. He reaches fourteen before the door opens. This time, he’s the first to speak.

“That serial killer thing, that wasn’t just a mental exercise, was it?”

“No.”

“A cabbie, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?” It slips out, even though John hadn’t actually meant to ask.

“If you don’t know my name by now you are more stupid than I calculated based on our past interactions.”

“I’m not asking for your name.” John isn’t quite sure if he should be offended or not.

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one, I invented the job.” Mr Holmes sounds rather proud of that.

“Consulting with whom?”

“Police, government agencies, private clients. Whoever presents an interesting enough case.”

“So you go around solving criminal cases?” John clarifies.

“Yes. Apart from the ‘go around’ bit. I generally do not leave my house.”

John’s been wondering about that. “Agoraphobic?”

Mr Holmes shrugs. “People are boring.”

“Right.”

\---------------

This time, the door doesn’t open until thirty-two and John is almost tempted to just and leave and pay for the pizza himself. When Mr Holmes does appear, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He rarely ever looks healthy or rested, but John’s never seen him that bad. He has to force himself to not slip into doctor-mode. He’s just a delivery person now. He’s not going to get involved in his customer’s health problems. Not his business.

“Afghanistan or Iraq,” John gets as greeting.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinks. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know about Afghanistan?”

“Thought so.”

John thinks about turning around, just walking away. But instead he asks, voice just a little bit sharper than necessary, “And how did you work that one out?”

“Your haircut and the way you hold yourself suggests former soldier. The way you check me over every time I open the door tells me you used to be a doctor. You still show signs of a tan, but only on your face and hands. You’ve been in action then.”

“Right. Anything else you’d like to tell me about myself?” John asks, the question half warning, half challenge.

Holmes rattles off a whole list of facts, starting with a possible injury as the reason for his discharge, then moving on to John’s brother who recently split with his wife and who John doesn’t get on with because of his alcoholism. All of which he guessed - “deduced” - while borrowing John’s cellphone two weeks ago.

John listens to it all, amazed and - if he’s honest with himself - a little bit creeped out. Still, “That’s amazing,” he says.

“Did I get it right?” Mr Holmes asks.

“Some.”

“Some?” It doesn’t seem to go over very well.

“Well, most of it. You only got one thing wrong,” John admits, “Not a brother.”

“A sister then.”

John nods. Mr Holmes smiles gleefully.

\--------  
\--------

 _Dear SH, I could use your help again_ Lestrade types. He hesitates. He deletes the last two words and types _input_. He continues writing and finally attaches some files.

It’s hard to admit it, but God help him, he needs this mysterious SH. He can’t make heads nor tails of this case.

“Did you just email the freak again?” Sally asks from the doorway.

Lestrade shrugs.

“Why do you keep doing that? You don’t even know who he is.”

“Because I’m desperate,” he says, then resolutely clicks the send button.

Sally shakes her head and goes back to her desk.

\-------  
\-------

John is on his way home from the pub, when he sees a man on the other side of the road, walking past slowly. He’s limping rather heavily and his use of a cane instead of a crutch for every second step tells John that it’s a long term issue. Normally John wouldn’t have paid a sight like this much attention, but something about the figure seems familiar. He keeps walking and tries to watch the man without making it obvious. He’s sure he’s seen him before.

Maybe someone from the military, he thinks, someone he used to work with in the field. Maybe someone who’s life he saved. That would explain why he’s familiar without actually seeming to be someone that John knows. He wonders if he should call out, but then decides against it.

Five minutes later the penny drops. Not someone from his past, but his present.

“Bloody hell,” John mutters and shakes his head. That’s interesting.

\--------------

“You’re not agoraphobic,” John says when Mr Holmes opens the door.

It earns him a raised eyebrow. “And what made you decide that?”

John gestures at him, standing just outside the door. “Case in point.”

Mr Holmes offers him a small smile. “Not terribly convincing evidence.”

“Okay,” John says. “How about, I saw you out in the street three days ago.”

“I was wondering if you’d recognised me.” Mr Holmes steps back. “Would you like to come inside, John?”

John is a bit taken aback by the sudden invitation, but then mentally shrugs and agrees to a cup of tea. He doesn’t have any other deliveries for the moment and he is rather curious.

He follows the other man up a narrow flight of stairs and takes the offered armchair by the fireplace.

“Sherlock, right?” he says while his host is puttering around in the kitchen, “bit of an unusual name.”

“I never said I was agoraphobic, that was your conclusion,” Sherlock Holmes answers, completely ignoring John’s last statement. John is, maybe, a little bit glad about that. It was stupid anyway.

“Then why did you say you don’t leave the house?”

“I told you. People are boring.”

“Liar.” John is absolutely sure that that is not true, even though he doesn’t know yet what the truth is.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock Holmes hands him a cup of tea and sits down in the armchair opposite John’s, folding his good leg underneath him.

“You don’t find people boring. Whenever I’ve meet you, you talk about nothing but people. And this,” he gestures at the stacks of magazines, newspapers and books that are taking up most of the floor space, “is more proof.”

There’s a small, amused smile on Sherlock Holmes’ lips when John looks back at him. “Go on.”

John falters. “And you helped the police catch a killer.”

“Only because it was an interesting case. I have no interest in the people involved, only in the methods used.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Believe what you like.”

John sips his tea and watches Sherlock Holmes watch him. “Why did you invite me up?”

“You’re interesting.”

“I am?” John’s never thought of himself as an interesting person. He’s been told by a number of people that he’s quite the opposite. Harry, for one, never forgets to remind him of it.

“Yes. You’re also the first acquaintance who actually bothered to think about why I don’t leave the house. You didn’t come to the right conclusion, of course, but you tried. Additionally, you’ve had some interesting ideas about my little puzzles.”

This time, the smile crinkles the corner’s of Sherlock Holmes’ eyes. He suddenly looks rather beautiful. John forces himself to keep breathing evenly.

“It’s got something to do with your limp, doesn’t it?” John asks, mainly to distract himself from the sudden attraction.

A phone rings at that moment and Sherlock reaches into a pocket in his robe and pulls out a mobile. He reads whatever message he just received.

“John, on the desk behind me is my laptop. Hand it to me?”

John wants to protest, then thinks about the limp and the cane - which is nowhere to be seen for some reason - and gets up to get the laptop. He hands it to Sherlock.

“I should go,” John says.

“Stay.” Sherlock looks up. “If you don’t mind.”

John stays.

\---------------

Half an hour later, John dries his hands after doing the dishes - yeah, he doesn’t know why he did them either, it just felt like the right thing to do at the time - and comes back into the living room to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

“You alright?” John asks. It should feel strange, they barely know each other, but somehow it doesn’t. Somehow it feels right.

“I have a new case. It appears to be rather puzzling.”

“Want to talk about it?” John sits back down in the armchair.

Sherlock pushes his laptop towards John and says, “It would be easier if you read the file yourself.”

John takes the laptop and reads.

From: g.lestrade@nsy.gov.uk  
To: sh@gmail.com

Dear SH,

I could use your input.

Yesterday morning, Scotland Yard was called to a murder. Mr Pedro Garcia, an employee at the Spanish Embassy, was found beaten to death only a few hundred meters from his house.  
When we investigated further we found out that a certain Mr Logan Echell had been Garcia’s guest the evening before and one of the neighbours had seen him leave very early in the morning, looking rather dishevelled.  
We tracked down Echell and took his statement. According to him, Garcia offered him to stay the night and they both went to bed shortly past midnight. Garcia seemed concerned about something, but claims he Echell doesn’t know what it was. When Echell woke this morning, Garcia was gone and the house empty. He tried to call Garcia’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Echell states that he assumed Garcia had been called on an important errand and had forgotten to let him know. He went home and then to work, which is where we tracked him down. He says he had no idea that Garcia was dead. Personally, I think he is telling the truth.  
As you can see from the photos, Garcia’s head was smashed in by some blunt instrument. Anderson says he was killed by the first blow from behind, but whoever did it kept hitting him for a while afterwards, which means it was personal. He puts ToD at around 1am.

I have attached Echell’s statement, Anderson’s report and the crime scene photographs. Contact me if you can make sense of any of this.

Regards,  
Lestrade

 

“Okay,” John says after having had a look at the photos and skimming the witness’ statement. “What do you think about it?”

“I have some theories, but I need more facts.”

“You’re going to take the case?”

“John, I find myself perpetually bored. Life is commonplace. Books are predictable, the TV broadcasts nothing but babbling idiots and even the world of crime seems to have become less ingenious these days. My brain needs work.”

“So the answer is yes, then.” John smiles. Sherlock Holmes has a tendency towards the melodramatic. It’s amusing. “Mind if I stick around for a bit?”

“Mrs Hudson took my skull.” Sherlock looks aggrieved. “You’ll do.”

John decides to take it as a compliment. “Who is Mrs Hudson?”

“My landlady. Mycroft pays her to keep an eye on me and the flat clean. I find her rather useful. If she doesn’t decide to kidnap my skull, that is.”

“I’m sorry,” John says, “Mycroft?”

“My overly intrusive brother. He is of the opinion that I need his help, and since I refuse to see him he has resorted to bribing people to spy on me. You have not been approached by a mysterious man offering you money in exchange for information about my eating habits, have you?”

“No.” John says.

“You’re slipping, Mycroft,” Sherlock says loudly to the room at large. Then continues to John, “I’d rather you don’t take the bribe if he should try to hire you. I had to stop ordering from Song Wu’s because Cho Cheng became unbearably nosy. And Angelo makes the best pizza in London.”

“Noted. No bribes.”

Sherlock smiles. “Now, back to our little murder problem.”

“Maybe it would help if you saw the crime scene?”

“No,” Sherlock says immediately, voice harsh. John files it away for later. “What do you think about the cause of death?”

John shrugs. “The medical examiner says it was blunt force trauma.”

“Anderson’s an idiot. Have a look at the photographs. What do you think?”

John does as Sherlock asks, but he has to agree with this Anderson, idiot or not. It sure looks like someone beat the poor sod’s head in. Without seeing the body for himself, John can’t do much more.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, “It’s time we found out a bit more about Mr Pedro Garcia.”

He takes his laptop back from John and goes to work.

\---------------  
\---------------

From: sh@gmail.com  
To: g.lestrade@nsy.gov.uk

1\. Echells has nothing to do with the murder  
2\. Garcia is from Anchuria, not Spain. Check his background. Let me know the results.

SH

 

Lestrade reads the short email over again and wonders what Garcia’s nationality has to do with it all. But he’s learned to trust SH’s strange deductions and requests and so he picks up the phone and tells Donovan to get him all the information she can about Pedro Garcia’s past. Especially anything before he came to Spain.

\------------  
\------------

John gets out his keys and lets himself in. After months of knocking and waiting for Sherlock to open the door, it feels a bit strange to be able to enter by himself. Then again, he’s not here as a delivery person today. He’s here as Sherlock’s... friend? John isn’t sure if it’s the right definition, but it comes as close to what he has with Sherlock as he is able to define.

He’d been surprised when Sherlock had given him a set of keys right after he’d filled John in about Pedro Garcia’s nationality and how it is relevant to the case, but Sherlock had reasoned that it would be easier for both him and John, if he didn’t have to go up and down the stairs whenever John showed up. John takes this as an invitation to visit whenever he feels bored at home. Which is now.

He jogs up the twelve steps to the flat and opens the door to the sight of Sherlock stretched out on his back in the middle of the living room floor.

“Everything alright?” John asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock answers and makes no attempt at moving.

“Need some help getting up?”

“No.”

“Okay.” John takes the grocery bags into the kitchen - Sherlock never has enough food at home - and starts putting things away. “Any new leads on the case?”

“Lestrade emailed last night. It appears that Pedro Garcia was born and raised in Kalub, Anchuria until most of his village, including his parents, were brutally murdered by Monteblanco’s troops. Only a handful of people escaped, among them Pedro Garcia. He moved to live with an uncle in Spain, studied Politics and started working for the Spanish government three years ago. He’s been working for the Spanish Embassy in London since September last year.”

“Is any of that helpful?” John comes back in and sits down in - what he has come to think of as - his armchair.

“I need more information. Unfortunately I have exhausted all sources and resources available to me from here.”

“Which means?”

“How do you feel about breaking into a house?”

“I feel that it is a crime,” John says.

“Obviously. But what if this crime would help solve a crime that has already been committed and is much worse than the crime of breaking into an empty house, especially when there is no intention to steal anything of value?”

“You want to break into Garcia’s house?”

“I want you to break into Garcia’s house.”

“No way.”

“John. I need more data. Without it, I am powerless,” Sherlock says.

“Why don’t you ask DI Lestrade for access? He came to you for help, surely he’d let you in.”

“Because he doesn’t know who I am and I’d rather it stays that way,” Sherlock says in the tone of a man explaining that one plus one equals two.

“Why?” John has wanted to ask this question for a while. Why does Sherlock go to such length to stay anonymous for his clients?

“I have my reasons.”

“Are you going to reveal them to me?”

“No. Are you going to do it?”

John sighs. He is so going to regret this. “Fine. What’s the address?”

“Give me a hand and I’ll show you.” Sherlock holds up a hand.

\--------------

John dials and puts the mobile to his ear. “I’m in,” he says when Sherlock picks up.

“Good, find his desk or workspace or whatever. I want to you look through his papers for anything that appears odd.”

“Any particular kind of ‘odd’?” John asks sarcastically.

“Anything the police might have overlooked. Use your brain,” Sherlock says and hangs up.

“I’m already regretting this,” John says under his breath, but does as he is told.

\--------------

“It’s a pretty posh area Garcia lived in,” John says as he’s taking off his jacket.

“Anything else?” Sherlock asks from where he is stretched out on the sofa, a mug of tea balancing on his chest.

“Oh, nothing much. Just this,” John holds up a folded slip of paper. “Found it in the back of the fireplace. Looks like he tried to burn it but failed.”

“Give me,” Sherlock demands and holds out his hand.

The paper reads:

 _LHd RHl / LHd RHl / LHo RHl // LHl RHo / LHal RHu / LHd RHu / LHh RHd // LHd RHu / LHah RHo / LHah RHo / LHu RHh // LHh RHh / LHu RHo / LHd RHo // LHg RHh / LHo RHo / LHah RHo / LHah RHo / LHo RHl / LHh RHl / LHh RHd / LHo RHd / LHu RHh_

“Looks like a code to me,” John says.

Sherlock ignores him.

Half an hour later, John is woken out of his doze rather rudely by Sherlock’s triumphant shout.

“It’s the Semaphore Flag Alphabet!” He starts scribbling on another piece of paper, then hands it to John when he’s finished.

This one reads:

 _1pm, side door, up 2, 3 room left_

“A rendezvous?” John hazards.

“But with whom?” Sherlock stares at the piece of paper. “Oh, but of course!”

He grabs his laptop and starts typing. After a few moments he says, “John write this down,” and starts to dictate.

“Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Folliott, Oxshot House; Mr. Cyril Hynes, Purdley Place; Mrs. Jamie Baker Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Dr Harold Hiller, The Bellevue; Mr Stephen Keller, Brompton Place. Got it?”

John finishes writing. “What’s this all about?”

“Possible destinations for the meeting. None of the other houses in the immediate area have a second floor.”

“This meeting could have been anywhere,” John protested.

“Not if Garcia had less than an hour to get there. Echell’s statement says they went to bed past midnight. The meeting was scheduled for 1am. There’s only so much ground Garcia could have covered in less than an hour.”

“He could have taken his car.”

“Posh area, Garcia driving off in the middle of the night? Someone would have noticed. No, he went there on foot. And those places are the only ones that make sense.”

\---------

“These are the ones where I cannot find a picture online.” Sherlock holds up yet another piece of paper.

John glances at the three names. “Looks like you’re going to have to ring some doorbells, then.”

“You-”

“No,” John interrupts resolutely. “You want to solve this case, you have to do some of your own footwork. I have a job I need to go to in order to earn money.”

“You hate your job.” Sherlock sounds a lot like he is pouting.

“I don’t hate it. Even if I did, I need to buy food and pay my rent.”

“I can pay you.”

“No,” John says again. “I don’t want your money.”

“Why not?” Sherlock seems genuinely surprised.

“Because - and that may come as a surprise - but you’re my friend. I don’t take money from friends.”

Sherlock looks at him strangely.

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’ll make you a deal. You wait until tomorrow morning and I’ll come with you. We can take my car. Pretend we’re collecting money for Help for Heroes or something. I’ll do the talking if you want.”

“I’m not going out,” Sherlock says.

“Well, then you’re on your own.” John picks up his jacket and goes to the door. “See you around.”

“John, wait.” Sherlock pushes himself off the sofa, grabs the back of the armchair to steady himself. His leg must be hurting worse today, John thinks. “Fine. We’ll go together. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

\-------------

When John goes to pick up Sherlock the next morning, the view stops him in his tracks. So far, he’s only ever seen Sherlock in old, washed-out pyjamas and the ever-present blue bathrobe. This morning, though, Sherlock is fully dressed. He looks... stunning. John swallows.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks.

John blinks. “Yeah. Fine. Ready to go?”

“After you.”

Sherlock reaches for his cane and follows John down the stairs. They’re almost out of the house, when Mrs Hudson’s door opens.

“Sherlock? Are you going out?”

“You can tell my brother I’ll be back before nightfall. He can stop worrying,” Sherlock says over his shoulder and follows John out.

\---------------

Mr Henderson of High Gable, it turns out, is not at home. But his wife, a portly woman of about fifty, is more than happy to spend half an hour talking about her husband’s butterfly collection. Sherlock is almost frighteningly charming throughout the whole time - even admiring her family photos on the mantle - and John has to re-adjust his view of him yet again.

When they ring the doorbell to Purdley Place, nobody answers. John catches Sherlock glancing longingly over the hedge into the garden surrounding the house, and he has to wonder what kind of plan Sherlock would be following if he weren’t hindered by his bad leg.

With Purdley Place being a bust, they’re left with only one name on the list. Brompton Place is about half a mile from Garcia’s residence.

The door is opened by a young woman. John rattles down the same spiel that got them into the Henderson’s house. She looks at them, worried.

“I’m not sure I can help you,” she says when he’s finished. “I’m just the Au-pair and I don’t think Mr Keller would be interested in giving to charities. I’m sorry.”

“Is Mr Keller in?” Sherlock asks. “We’d like to speak with him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

At this point, a man’s voice calls from inside the house. “What’s going on, Grace?”

Grace the Au-pair turns to answer. “Just some men asking for donations, Mr Keller. I think you should go,” she finishes to John and Sherlock.

But Sherlock isn’t even listening to her. He stays where he is, peering past her into the house. “Mr Keller? Do you have a minute? It’s for a good cause,” he says loudly.

“Sherlock,” John hisses.

A man steps out of a room to the side and comes to the front door. Sherlock starts to smile the moment he looks at him.

“What do you want?” The man asks unfriendly.

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock answers, still smiling. “Come on, John. Let’s go home.”

\-------------------  
\-------------------

From: sh@gmail.com  
To: g.lestrade@nsy.gov.uk

Your killer is Mr Stephen Keller, Brompton Place. I suggest you run his fingerprints and a face recognition as soon as you have him in custody.

SH

 

“Sally,” Lestrade calls. When she shows up in his doorway he continues. “Let’s visit Mr Stephen Keller of Brompton Place.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because our mystery detective has solved another case.” Lestrade gets up and grabs his coat.

Sally rolls her eyes and shakes her head but follows him out.

\-----------------  
\-----------------

>   
> _Arrest Made in Garcia Murder_
> 
>  _A man was arrested yesterday by New Scotland Yard, on suspicion of murdering Mr Pedro Garcia. Garcia was found dead in a street near his house five days ago. Scotland Yard announced that the man arrested had been living in London under a false identity for years. The police believe that Garcia had found out the man’s true identity and was killed to keep the secret from getting out._
> 
>  _Officers from Metropolitan Police's anti-terrorist squad swooped on an address in London, and arrested the man, whose name has not yet been released, at 7am on Friday morning._
> 
>  _Scotland Yard has confirmed that the man in custody is also suspected of involvement in state-backed death squads, which targeted guerilla movements in Anchuria during the early 1980s._
> 
>  _Scotland Yard has not yet given any further details about the man, the arrest or the charges._

“We should celebrate,” John says and puts the newspaper down. “Another case solved.”

“You can order something if you like,” Sherlock says from his customary place on the sofa.

“I was more thinking of going out to eat.”

“Stop it, John.”

John shakes his head. “What’s your problem?”

“I told you, I don’t like people,” Sherlock says angrily.

“And I told you I think that’s bullshit,” John answers. He gets up and takes his jacket. “I’m going out for a meal. You’re welcome to join me.”

Sherlock just glares at him, then huffs and turns his back to John.

“Suit yourself,” John says and walks out.

\-----------

It’s been a week since he’s last seen Sherlock, but John doesn’t feel particularly eager to visit him again any time soon. He’s not even sure how welcome he’d be if he did go.

Harry had called late the night before, wanting to talk about Clara and how she was trying to sort out her life now. It had been a trying two hours. John feels like he needs something stronger than his own crappy instant coffee to wake him up this morning. So he’s sitting in Starbucks, nursing a big Americano when a shadow falls over him.

“I would like to congratulate you, Dr Watson,” some stranger says.

Mister, I’m not a doctor anymore,” John corrects automatically, then looks up. The fact that he’s not even surprised that some stranger knows his name should probably worry him more than it does.

“But of course. Mr Watson. And may I add my thanks.”

“For what?”

The stranger sits down opposite John. “For getting my brother out of the house and interacting with the general public.”

John frowns. “You must be Mycroft.”

“I see he told you about me. Just out of curiosity, how did you do it?”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think that’s any of your business,” John says.

Mycroft smiles. “Anything concerning my little brother is my business. I could make your life a lot easier if we were to work together.”

“Sherlock’s a grown man. He doesn’t need looking after.” John knows he’s sounding defensive, but he can’t help it. Something about the man pisses him off.

“You know very little about my brother if you think that.”

“I know enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish my coffee in peace.”

“Of course.” Mycroft stands up. “One last thing: However you did it, you have some influence over Sherlock. I would like to urge you not to misuse it. I trust that I don’t have to tell you that I am an influential man.”

John snorts. “I trust you don’t take it personally when I tell you to fuck off.”

Mycroft gives him another meaningless smile. “Not at all, Doctor Watson.” He reaches into a pocket and takes out a card. “When you change your mind, give me a call.”

After Mycroft leaves, John finishes his coffee. When he gets up, he takes the card off the table and slips it into his pocket. Not because he thinks he might change his mind, but because John knows that it’s always good to have information. Mycroft’s number might come in handy one day.

\---------------

It’s his encounter with Mycroft that makes John rethink his decision. Initially, after getting to know Sherlock, he’d decided not to pry into the reasons for Sherlock’s disability. If Sherlock wanted to tell him, he would. Maybe. After all, there were things in John’s life that he’d rather not tell anyone.

But after meeting Mycroft, John changes his mind. If he is going to have to deal with someone this dangerous - and John has met enough dangerous men in his life to know one when he sees one - he’ll need more information. He has to be better prepared the next time.

It takes some doing - a google search turns up exactly nothing - but John still knows people who owe him favours and who can dig a little deeper. Eventually he is able to piece together a rough picture.

Someone - and John would bet his life that it was Mycroft - had made sure the official paper trail was as deeply buried and forgotten as official paper trails ever can be. John is rather proud of himself for digging up as much as he has.

It’s not a pretty picture, but then again, these things rarely are. The drug abuse he’s already guessed at, but the hit and run sounds nasty. John even manages to get his hands on the medical file from the accident and it makes for some interesting reading.

\----------------

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, pretending to be asleep. John knows for a fact that he isn’t actually sleeping, because he just came in and closed the door rather loudly. Sherlock would have to be dead or stoned out of his mind to sleep through that. John is pretty sure that he’s neither.

“You know your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, right?” John asks.

“I am aware of that fact.” Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Only if you’re a psychologist hired by my brother to work out my problems.”

“I’m not.”

Sherlock turns his head and squints at John. “Good. Are you planning on making tea any time soon?”

John goes and makes tea. “Your brother is an ass, by the way,” he says when he comes back.

Sherlock sits up and takes the offered tea. “I know.”

“He threatened me.”

“He does have a tendency to be melodramatic,” Sherlock says.

“Unlike you, of course,” John jokes. “Any new cases?”

“Nothing major. I found and returned the Bruce Partington plans yesterday,” Sherlock says casually.

“In person?”

Sherlock just gives him the Look. John decides to let it slide. “I might have something for you. It probably won’t take you long, though.”

“Shoot.”

“Harry phoned me last night. She’s trying to reach Clara, only Clara isn’t answering any of her calls or emails and it appears that she is not at home or at work either. Harry doesn’t know how else to find her. I said I’d see what I can do.”

“She’s probably off on a holiday with some new girlfriend.”

John shakes his head. “She’s not the type to just take off without letting anyone know. And her friends and colleagues don’t know where she could be either. And before you ask - yes, I’ve asked them myself in case Clara is trying to dodge Harry.”

Sherlock is quiet for a few minutes. “I’ll look into it,” he says eventually.

“Thank you. Do you need more information-”

Sherlock waves a hand. “Already got it.”

John shakes his head. He should have known. Sherlock has probably mapped out John’s entire family history by now.

\-------------

“John? John Watson,” someone says behind John and he stops and turns.

“Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together,” the stranger says and John remembers.

“Yes, Mike. Hello.” They shake hands.

“I only saw your email this morning,” Mike says, “About Clara. I was going to answer later, but since we’re here now I can tell you in person. Or have you found her?”

John shakes his head, intrigued. “No. Have you seen her recently?”

Mike gestures towards a nearby pub, “Want to talk about it over a drink? My treat.”

John accepts.

Once they’ve got their beers and have settled at a small window table, John redirects their conversation to Clara.

“Oh, yes. I last saw her three days ago. I lecture at Barts every Wednesday, you see. God, I hate my students. Were we ever that thick?” John shrugs noncommittally.

“Anyway,” Mike continues, “She usually works there Mondays and Wednesdays, when she’s not at the practice. We often go out for lunch together when I’m in - reminisce about the good old days, you know. But last Wednesday was weird. She got a phonecall and then just walked out on me halfway during lunch. I saw her get into one of those fancy black cars - definitely not hers, not on our salary.” He winked. “Anyway, haven’t heard from her since. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but she was acting really strange after that phonecall. Like she was suddenly worried about something. You don’t think she’s in trouble, do you?”

“No,” John says, “Harry just needs to talk to her to sort some things out.”

“Ah. Shame about that,” Mike says, “I always thought they made a lovely couple.”

John smiles his agreement and gets an approximate date for Clara’s departure before lets the conversation drift on to other topics.

\-----------------

From: sh@gmail.com  
To: g.lestrade@nsy.gov.uk

Attachment: bartscctv.rar  
Re: Files

Naturally.  
SH

  


>   
> _g.lestrade wrote:_   
> 

  


If this is a criminal case, you better let me know about it. 

Lestrade

>  _SH wrote:_

So is this. Stop being annoying.

SH

>  _g.lestrade wrote:_

That was for a case.

Lestrade

>  _SH wrote:_

Why not? You’ve done it before.

SH

>  _g.lestrade wrote:_

Dear SH

I can’t just email files like that to you.

Lestrade

>  _SH wrote:_

Lestrade

I need access to the CCTV recordings of St Bartholomew's Hospital at the corner of Little Britain and Montague Street (A1) last Wednesday between 1pm and 2pm. Please email the file to me.

SH

\-----------

“There,” John says and points at the screen where Clara is getting into a black, expensive looking car. “That’s gotta be them.”

Sherlock pushes John aside and sits in front of the screen, hands steepled underneath his nose. After a few seconds, he reaches out a hand and takes a screencap. He then enhances the image and squints at it some more.

“BD43 SHM.”

“What?” John asks.

“The license plate. Note it down.”

“Oh, right.” John does as Sherlock asked. “Do you have any way of finding out who the car belongs to?”

“Several.”

“I’ll let you get on with it, then. I have a shift in half an hour,” John says and gets up. “Want me to bring some dinner when I get home?”

Sherlock waves a hand. “I don’t eat when I’m on a case.”

John narrows his eyes. “That’s not exactly healthy.”

“And you’re not my mother.”

John snorts. “Thank God for that. I’ll see you tonight.”

John is halfway down the stairs, when it suddenly hits him that he was talking of Sherlock’s flat as if it was his home too. When he closes the front door behind him, he has to admit to himself that he spends more time at Baker Street than at his own flat. He might as well face the facts - he has moved in with Sherlock at this point in all but the name.

He wonders what Sherlock thinks about this development - if he’s even noticed it - but decides that he has to be alright with it. Otherwise he would have told John so. Sherlock wasn’t one to hold back out of misplaced politeness.

\---------------

 _Come to Baker Street at once. SH_

John sighs, decides that being annoyed about Sherlock’s tone and presumptions would just be a waste of time and types a text back.

 _at work. i’ll be there tonight round 7. jw_

A few seconds later he gets another text.

 _New developments. Either come now or I will have to dismiss the case. Additionally, there is always time for correct grammar. SH_

John goes to find his boss. He doesn’t like lying, but finding Clara is a bit more important to him than delivering pizza to strangers. Especially now that he’s pretty sure Clara’s got herself into some sort of trouble. Angelo isn’t very pleased with John’s excuses, but he gives him the rest of the day off when John promises to do a double shift on Saturday to cover for Sandy, who has been ill for a week now.

As soon as he is on the way, John sends off one last text.

 _gimme ten mins. JW ps: piss off._

\------------

Sherlock is pacing around the living room when John arrives.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he says the moment John steps into the flat. “There’s a warehouse at Riverside in Greenwich where he’s holding her. Are you armed?”

John looks at Sherlock - dressed in his customary pyjamas and bathrobe - and raises his eyebrows. He ignores Sherlock’s question in favour of asking, “Are you planning to go out like that?”

“What? No. I am the brains in this operation. You are the muscle.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, there is no way I am going to Greenwich and knock on some warehouse door just because you have a hunch-”

“I don’t have hunches,” Sherlock interrupts haughtily. “I know she’s there. What I don’t know is how long we have before they move her again. Or worse.”

John’s gut clenches at the thought of what that ‘worse’ could entail. Clara is one of his oldest friends and whatever she’s gotten herself into, she doesn’t deserve getting hurt. That still doesn’t mean he feels up to playing one-man-army. “I’m not going there on my own. We’re going to need some official backup, the police-”

“The police are stupid, they won’t listen to me.” Sherlock sounds like he knows what he’s talking about and John supposes it’s not the first time he’s had to rely on some outside force to do the hands-on work.

“What about that inspector you’ve been emailing with?”

Sherlock stops his pacing and stares at John. John shrugs. “He knows you’re working on something right now and he knows to trust you, right?”

Sherlock tips his head sideways, thinking. “It could work.”

“Call him.” John says, putting as much authority into his voice as he can. “Then get dressed. I’m going to get my gun. When I’m back, you’re coming with me.”

Sherlock scowls, but reaches for the phone and punches in a number. The last thing John hears as he closes the door behind him is Sherlock asking for Detective Inspector Lestrade.

\------------

“I still don’t see why I had to come along. I will be useless at the scene and-”

“Because it’s time to come out of the castle,” John interrupts Sherlock’s rant. Part of him is still surprised that Sherlock actually did follow him out of the flat. He knows that Sherlock prefers to pull the strings, otherwise remaining behind the scenes, but he wants Sherlock there. If just to calm his own nerves.

Sherlock snorts, but doesn’t continue.

Outside the car, London is flying past them. The cabbie clearly knows his way around and rarely gets stuck in the interminable city traffic. The extra fifty quid John promised him if he got them to Greenwich in record time seem to be working their magic.

Sherlock is dressed just as immaculately as the last time he went out with John. There isn’t a crease out of place in his shirt-and-suit combination. It reminds John a little of Mycroft - all that’s missing is the intimidating aura of absolute power. A fact of which John is rather grateful, since his own nerves aren’t exactly steady at this point.

“You’re sure she’s there,” John can’t help but ask after Sherlock has been sulking in silence for a few minutes.

Sherlock just glares at him, clearly despising being asked the same question a second time.

“Fine,” John says and looks out the window for the rest of the drive.

It takes them less than twenty minutes to reach the address Sherlock had given. John pays the cab driver and they get out.

“How long do you expect it will take the Inspector to show up?”

Sherlock points. “About ten seconds.”

A grey-haired man in a black trench coat is making his way over to them. John notices that Sherlock is clutching his cane so tightly, his knuckles have turned white. He’s holding himself stiffly, waiting for the other man to reach them. Sherlock’s expression is closed-off and if John hadn’t known him, he would have written Sherlock off as a posh, snobbish arsehole.

DI Lestrade reaches them and greets them with a handshake. “The mysterious SH I assume?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s good to finally meet you” Lestrade smiles. His eyes flicker over Sherlock’s cane, but he doesn’t say anything. John likes him immediately. The man has a down-to-earth flair about him, that explains why he was willing to listen to the advice of an absolute stranger, as long as it got the job done.

After John introduces himself, they get down to business. Lestrade directs some woman called Sally Donovan to have the team circle the warehouse Sherlock specifies.

Donovan doesn’t look too happy about the whole thing and eyes Sherlock like something you’d find at the bottom of your shoe. John assumes she’s reacting more to Sherlock’s posture and tone, than based on any real dislike. It is clear that the two don’t know each other.

Once CO19 is in place Lestrade comes over to where John and Sherlock are waiting one last time. Donovan is walking with Lestrade and John hears her mutter, “You really think we can trust the freak?”

It is clear from Sherlock’s scowl that he has heard her comment too.

Lestrade waves a hand and says, “Don’t mind Sergeant Donovan, she’s just-”

“Frustrated about Anderson not leaving his wife like he promised he would,” Sherlock finishes the sentence in a scathing tone.

“How did you-?” Lestrade says before he can catch himself. “Never mind. Not my business.”

Donovan looks ready to kill someone - preferably Sherlock, and John can’t really blame her right now - but follows orders when Lestrade tells her to go back to the team.

“So, you think they’re still in there?” Lestrade says, back on task.

“Yes,” Sherlock says with a sigh. John knows how much he hates repeating things, but Sherlock keeps himself in check and recounts the information he gave Lestrade not ten minutes earlier.

“There are at least three men and Dr Clara Walker inside the warehouse. Plus the patient of course. They are towards the far left corner. As far as my people were able to discern, the three men are armed with automatic weapons. Unfortunately they were unable to give me more specific details.”

“That’s alright,” Lestrade says. “Well. Not time to waste.”

“Indeed.”

\------------

After that, everything happens rather fast. The SFO team enters the warehouse, and shortly later John hears three shots fired from two different weapons. There’s some shouting and then everything goes still.

Sherlock is standing stock-still next to John, eyes glued to the warehouse, body leaning towards where the action is. John can’t blame him, really. As much as he hadn’t wanted to go in there by himself, he now wishes he could be at least part of the team. He wants to know how things are going, wants to make sure Clara is safe and unharmed. He’s not used to being a bystander - even after seven months of civilian life his old reflexes are making his muscles twitch. He’d tried to get into the team, but Lestrade had been adamant.

John puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, says, “She’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing,” more to himself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock places his free hand over John’s, but doesn’t say anything.

A few seconds later, John thinks he sees a shadow run out of a side door and vanish around the corner, but it happens so fast and the front doors are opening at the same time to reveal an officer leading Clara out of the building, that later John isn’t sure if he really saw what he thinks he saw.

Clara is teary-eyed and looks a bit shell-shocked, but she’s unharmed. The officer leaves her with John after instructing them not to wander off.

Sherlock stays where he is and watches Lestrade’s people lead the three kidnappers out of the warehouse shortly after and John sees him shake his head and mutter something under his breath. He wants to ask about it, but Clara is babbling something and clinging to his shoulder, drawing his attention to her.

\------------

Much later, they are back at Baker Street. Sherlock is sitting in his customary armchair, Clara is on the sofa next to Harry and John is busying himself ferrying tea in from the kitchen.

“It is all fairly obvious,” Sherlock says to the room at large when John settles into his own armchair, “Once John’s acquaintance mentioned Clara getting into someone’s car after receiving a rather upsetting phonecall it was simply a matter of research.

I obtained the CCTV footage, noted the licence plate of the car that collected her and hacked into the DVLA database to find out who the owner of the car is. Once I had a name, I was able to find a photograph of Moran. I then simply sent my people to look for Moran and the car. Both were spotted at Riverside. I checked ownership of the local warehouses and found that one of them belonged to Northside Ltd, one of Moran’s businesses. I was already aware, of course, that Northside Ltd is just a front for a number of criminal activities that Moran and his colleagues Reiser and O’Banion are executing. Unfortunately they have always been too careful for me to bring them to justice.”

When no one says anything, Sherlock continues. “I checked with my sources and was informed that Charles Reiser has recently been injured while executing a robbery. I deduced that he needed medical attention, but was unable to go to a hospital because the police are currently looking for him. Reiser needed a doctor and Moran provided one. The one thing I am not entirely sure about is how you come to know Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock directs this last question at Clara.

“I... have a bit of a gambling problem. I’m working on it,” Clara says tearfully.

“Clearly not very successfully.”

Harry puts her arm protectively around Clara and shoots a glare at Sherlock. “It’ll be alright. We’ll sort it out.”

“Sherlock,” John says warningly before Sherlock can make a comment about the appropriateness of such encouragement from an alcoholic. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a knowing smile, but he refrains from commenting.

The two women leave shortly after. Clara has to be at the station very early the next morning to give a more detailed statement. Lestrade had been kind enough to allow her a night of rest before questioning her.

\-------------

“Thank you,” John says once Clara and Harry have left and they are both sitting in their respective armchairs savouring the quiet. Well, John is savouring it, he’s not so sure about Sherlock, who looks like he might be only seconds away from torturing his violin. It’s hard to tell, sometimes.

“It was an interesting case.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock chooses to ignore him in favour of picking some invisible lint from his trouser leg. He is still dressed properly.

You know, it might help to talk about it,” John tries again.

“It didn’t help you.” Sherlock’s look dares John to contradict him, to turn this into a proper argument.

Instead of raising to the bait, John laughs a little, admits the truth. “No, it didn’t.”

“You heard her today,” Sherlock says.

John thinks back over the events of the day. “Sally Donovan?” he asks eventually.

Sherlock sniffs. “That’s what they all think.”

“I don’t. And I am pretty sure Lestrade doesn’t either. Besides, I think it’s more due to the way you treat people and less because of your disability.”

“I am aware of that, thank you,” Sherlock says coldly.

John mulls it over. “It bothers you because of your limp, though.” When Sherlock tries to interject, John talks over him. “Don’t tell me I’m an idiot. I know I am right this time. I can tell it from the way you dress every time you have to leave the house.”

“Do explain.” He aims for mocking, but John can tell he’s hit a point.

“You make yourself look as close to perfect as possible. As if it would hide the fact that one of your legs doesn’t work that well anymore.” John knows he must sound cruel saying it so bluntly, but it has always been his way to tackle a problem head-on and he’s not going to change that now. “You don’t care if they think you’re a freak because of your intellect. That just means they are too stupid to follow you. But there is always a possibility that they judge you based on your disability and not on your brains and you can’t stand that. So you choose to hide.”

John expects an outburst, a string of malicious deductions about John’s genetic lineage or his other various shortcomings, but Sherlock remains quiet, staring into some middle distance, hands clasped in front of him. The silence stretches.

John is about to get up and make some dinner for them when Sherlock suddenly starts to talk.

“You should move in properly.”

John looks at Sherlock in surprise. After what he just said, a proposal like that is the last thing he expected. “Are you sure?”

“It makes sense. You’d save money for rent and I would get a conversational partner that is slightly more receptive than a skull.”

“I also make great tea.”

“True.” Sherlock smiles. John is, yet again, struck by how handsome it makes him look. “Is that a yes?”

John hesitates, then decides he might as well go all in. It worked a few minutes ago. “In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that I will keep nagging you to leave the house. I will make you eat healthier food and the fungi collection in the kitchen has to go. I also fancy you a bit. If you’re fine with all that, then my answer is: yes.”

Sherlock levers himself off the sofa and steps closer to John. John has a moment to notice that his limp is a lot less pronounced than usual, before Sherlock leans in and gives him a peck on the cheek.

“It’s fine,” he says and walks off towards his bedroom, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes when he looks back at John.

“It’s all fine,” John echoes.

And maybe it isn’t yet, but if there’s a chance that it will be one day, John is willing to take it.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to Caers for squeeing over this while I wrote it and for betaing it when it was finally done.  
> Thanks also go to 12 people, who must remain unnamed, for helping me figure out Clara's case even tough they should have been doing other things at the time.


End file.
